


05 dimensions

by verbalmint



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: 00fftober, 31 Days Of Halloween, Alternate Universe - College/University, Day 16: Soulbond, Day 22: Dream, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, M/M, Na Jaemin-centric, Parallel Universes, day 5: dimension, dimension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 12:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalmint/pseuds/verbalmint
Summary: there are 5 other instances jaemin meets a strangerpossibly from the future before they live their present.





	05 dimensions

**Author's Note:**

> [1] i used to read ellen hopkins and while this is irrelevant information, move along hahahah. well okay, this is a nod to a past fic i had also of a dream realm (i think i thought about ellen hopkins a lot when i wrote that one that's why i mentioned it) and i thought i'd remake it in totally different terms inspired by the dimension prompt for #00FFTOBER writing challenge. using nomin.
> 
> [2] fun fact: i have whirlwind dreams. REM is amazing but also frustrating. i've frequent déjà vus that have manifested to reality and random sleep paralysis as well as out of body episodes. it's both haunting and amazing. 
> 
> [3] this is my first time publishing nomin and i hope it's not entirely a flop lol even if aaah i'm really worried this may be challenging to read but whatever, enjoy!

> **day 5: dimension**

The first time Jaemin dreams of him, he had a long day at school. 

His grades were drastically falling, 

close to failing, 

a hair’s breadth away, 

an almost there but not quite yet.

Reflection papers, research, and investigatory projects made up his list of to-do’s, classmates complaining he was a _ freeloader _ , asking for actual contribution from him in work done and time spent or _ I’ll tell the professor and have you kicked out _.

Tears clouded his vision then, emotional turmoil creeping up in ways unexplainable as the translucent liquid poured out from his eyes, gradually increasing in intensity until they’re cascading down like waterfalls waiting for its turn to pass through his 

cheeks, 

jaws, 

and where two drops meet right below his chin. It slid down his neck effortlessly to that section where his collar bones meet as his shoulders sagged and he’s sobbing into his hands. 

It felt like a failure. 

  
  


It’s also the day he noticed the dreamcatcher hanging by his window. His mother must’ve put it there. He observes its gentle sway, thread intricately woven through the brown willow hoop, and three feathers hanging at the bottom. 

  
  


.

**8:03 PM**

.

Jaemin steps in an eerily familiar convenience store—the one down by their family’s apartment. It’s truly convenient for quick errands his mother often tasks him, today a missing ingredient in tonight’s jjampong. The street lights are glaring that he squints when he chances a glimpse of it in the night. He thinks he feels a subtle scorch of its heat emanating on his arms, 

just very lightly, 

grazing his skin. 

Walking through the sliding door, his gaze falls on a stranger crouched near the fridge in front of a variety of beverages perfectly lined in rows. He doesn't know who _ he _ is, doesn't know why _ he _ caught his attention, but Jaemin finds himself so drawn to _ him _ as he walks toward him

nearer

and nearer

until he looks down and notices the white and black tiles that paints the floor like a chess board.

He almost forgets what he was here for at all. Right, the gochugaru.

He grabs it off a shelf and looks at the general direction of where he last saw the stranger. He looks at him in interest and curiosity. He could make out what looks like Chilsung cider in the stranger’s hand. He notices his side profile, the sharp cut of his jaw, his jet black hair in an updo, pale-colored skin complementing his dark colored hair, the way the street lamps from outside the convenience store reflects a streak of light on his black rimmed glasses—exactly where it bounces off of, at the leftmost side of _ his _ eyeglasses’ rim.

The man walks. They could be the same age, by what little he's observed of _ his _ demeanor and the school uniform _ he _ has on, necktie loose and lax around _ his _ neck. Like those starving college students trying to make ends meet by choosing soda over real food because they just didn't have enough to spend. 

Jaemin slides to the counter, hit with the realization that he needs to rush home. The pot was boiling when he left home and he could already hear her mother scolding him at the back of his head. He pays for the hot pepper flakes and already the stranger is in an apron behind the counter. _ He _ must've just put it over his school uniform in a rush. So was _ he _ just putting back the can of soda Jaemin saw _ him _ holding lately? 

Jaemin looks up in hopes to see his face properly, hands held out midway to hand his payment. 

But then it ends there.

Jaemin freezes.. He wants to reach out, but his feet are glued to the floor,

can’t move an inch,

nor a flick of the wrist. 

There was an invisible boundary he couldn't get over. 

It wraps up abruptly,

and he never gets to see his face. 

.

.

.

Jaemin tells himself that maybe he's a transferee. Perhaps one of his batchmates from another department, so he asked Donghyuck the next day. 

Donghyuck was sorting a stack of papers at the time, he was class beadle not that he wanted to. They did it in rotation for certain class units. 

“Donghyuck,” Jaemin started out slow, tapping his fingers on his desk, whilst turning to face his friend seated beside him. “Is there a transferee? Pale-skinned, jet black hair, black rimmed glasses?”

“No,” Donghyuck said simply, hitting the stack of papers particularly loud on his desk when he finished aligning them. 

School was a bit hectic, so Jaemin doesn't pry further, and chooses to stop asking silly questions about a student that probably doesn't even exist. His dreams were playing with him again, like a déjà vu. It wasn't the first time. In fact, he could recall instances in succession for months on end last year but that wasn’t the situation at hand now. 

He's somehow kept himself back on track in terms of his class standing, making up in extra credits and anything he could do to pull up his grades decently. He was only just a little shaky now, because damage control could only do so much. He just didn't want to see himself tip over and start all over again with the progress he's already managed.

But the answer he received was enough to keep him hoping. That someday their paths may cross. That he would meet the mysterious stranger from his state of slumber somehow.

.

**1:05 PM**

.

It’s been a week. 

He sees a familiar physique, body built in his peripheral view as he's typing up a research paper in the library. 

He's in that spacious room enclosed in glass, the history section where the students rarely congregated. Fluorescent lights are lined on the ceiling, mahogany cubbies in rows where the desktop computers are set, and a beige tiled floor. Only that he notices a clutter of thin strips of paper here and there—the shredder was near as he can hear the repetitive humdrum of the machine and a consequent sigh of frustration. 

“Hey,” Jaemin hears, deep and velvety in tone. 

He cranes his neck to the side, watches the same stranger from last week wave at him and walk to where he's sat. 

He notices the same jet black hair, _ his _ pale colored skin, _ his _ black rimmed glasses, and _ he _ seems to be fairly the same height is Jaemin’s conclusion before he could even make out a clearer view of _ his _ face. 

Again. 

.

.

.

A missed opportunity he realizes too late right before he wakes up. 

His cell phone is vibrating, screaming in alarm. It’s 7:05 am. 

Jaemin needs to wake up. He's running late for class. 

  
  


“Is there really no transferee?”

“No, Na Jaemin,” Donghyuck assures him firmly, hand on his shoulder in assurance. “If there was, I’d tell you about it if it really bothers you that much. 

“But I saw him. At the library. Yesterday. I think he waved at me.”

“Please don't tell me you like Mark Lee, too. I had to step out of the library because I saw him. I was too flustered. I left you while you were sleeping. You must’ve been dreaming. Please tell me the stranger you’re speaking about was just a dream and that it wasn’t Mark Lee who waved at you. 

  
  


On the third week he dreams of him, he has an argument with his mother over his below average class standing. She says that focus was key to a better understanding of everything, to unlocking knowledge, and all the bullshit only she really cared for. Like she’d told him to sign up for a medical course as a dutiful son like it was an obligation. Truthfully, Jaemin thinks he wouldn't be flunking his grades and relying on extra credit if only his mother had allowed him to pursue a creative course. She said that the thing with art is there’s no future in it. It's only there selectively, 

at times, 

whereas science forges solutions and saves people’s lives. To his mother, art was just a selfish tool for self expression. 

He countered that it wasn't like that at all, but it was a futile effort. Sometimes his mother was just too narrow minded about these things. Too traditional, in fact, that Jaemin keeps his identity crisis to himself. His mother couldn't know, 

not know, 

that he was different. 

That he swung a particular way. 

So he shut his mouth. He needed the roof over his head. The last he needed at the time was to get thrown out, 

disowned. 

Not when things were finally looking up again somehow. 

Not when he hasn't yet met the stranger he tells himself is a transferee. 

.

**10:05 AM**

.

The view is like a movie. 

In a meadow. 

Everything's in dreamy filter like he's filming a movie with the man whose face he still couldn't see clearly. Except there weren't cameras. 

They were alone in their little bubble. 

They're on a patch of grassland, somewhere in the outskirts near enough to their university. The sun shines on them, 

gladly, 

blessing them with its warmth and presence as the breeze blows.

They look more intimate now, more comfortable in each other's arms that it feels as though things have escalated so quickly. This time Jaemin is not looking through his own pair of eyes. He's much farther, 

he's out there. 

With _ him _ , blurred by soft lights with _ his _head on Jaemin’s lap.

They look happy. 

They are laughing and Jaemin sees his own eyes crinkle the way he hasn't seen himself in the flesh doing. It’s a showcase of an unfamiliar expression that paints his face in glee. 

Dream Jaemin runs his hand through the stranger’s jet black hair.

Jaemin sees himself smiling from ear to ear at a joke, 

or two, 

that the stranger probably cracked. 

Jaemin watches himself reach a hand out to cover the eyes of the man lying on his lap before they're holding hands and he's leaning down to plant a kiss on _ his _ lips. 

Dazed, 

desperate, 

grazing, 

hands all over bodies as they tear each other's mouth down. 

He knows his dream self is teasing him, because he still couldn't see _ his _ face. 

But now he’s glimpsed pearly whites and the contours of _ his _full lips, pouty and a full shade of pink. 

.

.

.

The sensation of their kiss wakes him up and presented a problem for him to take care of with his own hands. 

He wakes up to a beautiful and brand new morning. 

  
  


The next week, he's bored and out of his mind when he enters his room and free falls like starfish on his queen sized bed. He drifts off to sleep splayed out in another uncomfortable position he's used to sleeping in (it's just what works for him) and the last thing he thinks of is dreaming about him and he does. 

.

**8:05 PM**

.

It starts from where his first dream with _ him _in it stopped. 

They're in that convenience store, the stranger behind the counter now scanning Jaemin’s item of purchase after collecting his payment. The street lights from outside are still bright as the night, brighter than the dim lights above them. 

The stranger’s back meets him as he turns, he assumes _ he _'s fishing out a plastic bag from the back closet storage. 

But the stranger must've lost balance, the sound of glass shattering as _ he _ turns in _ his _ step and crouches down hastily—save for his quick reflexes—as he attempts to pluck up the pieces of a broken glass ashtray. 

“Sorry, hold on,” the stranger says, frantic in tone. Right now, nothing seemed in control. 

Jaemin doesn't keep still. This time he pushes forward, walks around the counter and does what he can do to help. He reaches for a dustpan where they could collect the chipped glass. 

The silence is comforting as they do the job quietly. There weren't any other customers. Jaemin looks at his watch. It was five minutes past eight in the evening. 

He crouches down carefully, notices the white and black checkered tiles like before. 

There's still a spark of light reflected off the stranger’s black rimmed glasses and this time their gazes finally meet as they stare at each other before reaching for the same thing at the same time. 

Now he could make out _ his _ eyes, a touch of gentle curiosity in them. 

Jaemin silently celebrates in victory when he makes out that _ his _ nose is perfectly leveled like he expected. 

The stranger smiles politely at him, the corner of _ his _ mouth pulling up slowly and softly, _ his _ eyes forming into crescents and Jaemin has to admit the undeniable pull of his charm. 

The stranger offers him a hand to get up, Jaemin doesn't even notice they’ve cleared the mess. When he gets up, the stranger doesn't let go of his hand when he says, “Thank you?” as if asking his name. 

“Jaemin.”

“Thank you Jaemin and nice meeting you too. I’m—”

.

.

.

** 3:03 PM**

Jaemin opens his eyes to the sight of his mother peering down at him just like she does on weekends when he's slept into the afternoon and hasn't done his chores. 

  
  


It's a new month in May. A new wave of requirements he tries so hard to bite down the bitterness of. He didn't want to be here, save for his saving grace of a friend that Renjun and Donghyuck are as friends. This time the class is witness to the disappointment their professor displays towards him: 

to every word, 

that formed every sentence, 

uttered harshly and powerful that were exchanged between them. 

Embarrassment eats him at his core as his professor stalks off when class ends. His fingers spasm and shake in anger. It's the only way to stop himself from doing something brash— that he may regret doing later on. 

His professor gave him a warning and one last chance, albeit in a commandeering and bossy voice, so he doesn't get kicked out of the unit and forced to start over as a first year student. 

But he might as well be. Turn over a new slate and trudge on a creative course, that is. 

That night, to make things worse, he gets a paper cut. 

He sleeps with thoughts of him. By this time he knows and wants to dream him into life. 

But he doesn’t dream of him. 

Instead, he wakes up with a sharp pain in his hand. 

It stings. 

It's heightened even more by the fact that he couldn't see his face. 

So he tries to sleep

again

and again, 

another attempt,

but he doesn't see him anymore than he already has. 

  
  


It's been a month since he’d dream so vividly, he swears to Donghyuck they're not just random fragments created by his imagination. 

It was real. 

He saw _ him _. 

In full. 

From head to toe. 

He remembers where the street lights reflected off _ his _ black rimmed glasses, _ his _ jet black hair, the black and white tiled floors, _ his _ sharp jaw, the soft smile and crescent eyes. How he saw himself carding his fingers through _ his _hair. 

The images are meshing together, combining in a cluster, a clump of memories that haven't happened in reality. 

He remembers _ his _ curious eyes, his perfectly leveled nose. 

_ His _ teeth a set of pearly whites and _ his _ pink pouty lips that kissed him senseless. 

He remembers. 

But then the dreams just had to stop. 

Right when he was introducing himself too, telling him his name. 

  
  


He feels so near, yet so far. Feels like failure yet again. 

  
  


**3:05 PM**

So Jaemin forgets about _ him _ after a while.

Until one little weird and unusual day in uni where he’s running late again for his afternoon class. At this point, should he be surprised at all? He was only going through this out of shear force. Not an ounce in him wanted to pursue a doctorate no matter how much he wills or tries to program himself to thinking and being. 

Thankfully there was something to look forward to after today's classes. His friend Renjun invited him to watch a theater play he’s directing. 

He brisk walks through the hallways that he doesn't see a student equally sprinting in haste in the opposite direction in front of him until they're entwined in feather boas and the stack of paper previously bunched under his arms gets lost somewhere beneath them, scrunched and unlined and no longer homework material. 

It wasn't even just that, because he had some laces strung over his shoulders and ribbons and fuzzy wires in variety.

They passed each other in a rushed impact, that they’re not even given enough time to figure who accidentally hit who but they fall down together on the ground after all. When the stranger moves, a mask pushes down over his face that makes him look like Zorro for a moment and hits Jaemin's head with his own as a result of momentary lack of vision. 

“Sorry,” the stranger offers, over the weird and awkward situation that befell them. He picks himself up, dusts off the props and costumes. He pulls out the mask on his face.

_ It’s him. _

Jaemin laughs internally at the irony of it all. 

It seems just like yesterday when he last dreamt of him, but frankly it’s been a while. 

The stranger helps him to his feet.

Jaemin helps him out, extending arms to help carry.

“Sorry about that,” the stranger scratches at the back of his head, bending down to collect the rest of his things. “And thank you?” as if asking his name. 

“Jaemin.”

“Thank you Jaemin.” 

“Jaemin,” rolls perfectly off Jeno’s tongue, clarifying pronunciation, all so experimentally uttering his name. 

It was like music to his ears. 

Like how it was in his dream. 

The stranger extends a hand to Jaemin, probably for a handshake. When Jaemin finally clasps the other’s hand, flashes of his dreams the couple past months come and go. 

“Hi, I'm Jeno. Lee Jeno. Theater major,” Jeno introduces, deep and velvety in tone like Jaemin remembers. 

Jaemin makes out Jeno’s eyes, a beautiful pair hiding beneath black rimmed glasses perched on top of a perfectly leveled nose. 

Jaemin balances at the balls of his feet, desperate to finally capture him in full and not just a glimpse. 

To know if it’s really _ him _. 

The one gracing his dreams for weeks, until they stopped. 

This time there's no invisible boundary he couldn't get over. 

There’s a slight spark on the side of Jeno’s black rimmed glasses, curious eyes staring back at Jaemin. 

Just like Jaemin knew

Like what he saw in his state of dreaming. 

Jeno smiles at him, as if on cue, eyes turning to crescents. His pearly white teeth show in full and those lips. 

Jaemin remembers every detail. 

They come in spurts, flying in and away, 

but this time the stranger is right in front of him and he knows

his name is Jeno. 

He knows he's real. 

**Author's Note:**

> Jaemin doesn't know if the 05 dimensions have the potential to weave into their present reality, but he's willing to find out and in the process get to know more about Jeno.


End file.
